


Take A Hint

by LWTIS



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Flirting, Bars and Pubs, Bartenders, F/F, Karen smiles and a thousand unicorns are born, M/M, Translation Available, Tricia is So Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: Tricia doesn’t have to ask what Kenny’s weakness is. Everyone in the bar’s five mile vicinity knows it’s sharply-dressed, sharp-tongued redheads who pay him no mind.





	Take A Hint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Townycod13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Townycod13/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [给你一个提示](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20052508) by [TheWayIAmOn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWayIAmOn/pseuds/TheWayIAmOn)



****“Do you have any questions?” Her new colleague, Mr. Call-Me-Kenny-McCormick asks.

Tricia has plenty - _Was the name of the bar an unfortunate result of a lost bet? Are the smudges in the corner of his eyes from last night’s eyeshadow and if yes, what brand is it? What’s the story behind the sour-looking man’s photograph pinned to the dartboard?_ \- but one of them is probably more urgent than the rest.

“You should know that if I witness harassment of any kind, I _will_ be tipping the nearest beverage on the perpetrator before throwing them out.” she says, blunt tone accessorised with a polite smile. And because she _does_ like the bar, with its dark oak counter-tops and attractive paycheck, she adds: “I do promise to go for the cheap stuff instead of the expensive liqueur. Will that be a problem?”

The reactions so far had been rather mixed. She’s expecting either shock, fear, discomfort, or an odd combination of all. She doesn’t expect Kenny’s grin - wide and slow to unfurl, blue eyes glittering with mirth.

“We are going to get along just fine, Miss Tucker.”

\---

Working in a bar is both much more ordinary and a lot more exciting than Tricia had expected it to be.

It’s a rather modest little venue, nestled between the financial district and the high street. The aesthetic mimics the style of a British-style pub, all dark wooden furniture and walls lined with bookshelves. The circle of staff is small, with a handful of regulars and a few students working busier nights. Their boss is a tall, blonde lady with perfect acrylic nails and an impeccable eye for numbers. She insists they call her Bebe, and is capable of breaking up any fight with a single, well-placed glare. She is exactly the kind of woman Tricia wants to be when she grows up.

The guy who interviewed her, Kenny, is a permanent fixture - always present when she arrives, and always there when she leaves at the end of her shift. He is, Tricia muses, a strange one - both entirely predictable and a surprising enigma. The blonde boy is seemingly an expert in pretty much everything - from mixing cocktails with terribly obscure names to gently fingering the ancient router until the Internet is stable once more. No matter the question or request thrown his way, he tackles them all with the same impeccable focus and agreeable smile. It’s clear why he’s the assistant manager, despite only being a few years older than her. Despite his quiet disposition and fondness for _awful_ puns, there’s something terribly...charming about Kenny. Even to Tricia, who finds men terribly underwhelming as a whole.

And of course, he knows absolutely everyone.  
He greets customers by name and always has a kind question to ask about a daughter, a boyfriend, a beloved pet. Tricia mentions her brother’s name _once_ , and immediately, Kenny offers up two anecdotes involving Craig, a bottle of tequila and an empty shopping cart, as well as several questions involving Tweek and Jimmy. It’s just a _little_ unnerving.    
That night, she entertains the notion that Kenny McCormick might be a spy. A malicious information broker behind a sweet facade, biding his time for potential future blackmail.  
In the morning, she decides that as long as he keeps sharing the secrets of making such _perfect_ mojitos, she doesn’t really care.

\---

Tricia is re-arranging the floral decorations for the third time when Bebe makes her first appearance, sweeping between the tables with a thoughtful expression. When she pops up behind the register thirty minutes later, Tricia is too busy arguing against Kenny’s horrendous music choice to pay it much mind. But when the blonde slips out of her office for the third time only ten minutes later, she grows curious.

“Is something wrong?” she asks when Kenny joins her in the back. “The boss has been lingering.”

She gets a smirk in response. “Bebe has a weakness for tall, dark-haired beauties in a pretty suit. So when the office crowd comes in, and there are a few stunners, I make sure to let her know.”

True enough - their boss seems _very_ pleased, eyes flickering between a rather handsome businessman in Burberry and a dark-skinned lady wearing Hugo Boss like a second skin. Tricia swallows a snort.

“How gracious of you.”

“You know me. Generous for the thirst.” he replies cheerfully. With a stroke-inducing move, he flips the bottle in his hand. “How about you? What’s your poison?”

Tricia takes a moment to consider, her hesitation making the silence stretch a beat too long.

“Cute, artsy girls.” she replies slowly. “The...ones with a pretty smile whose face kinda lights up when they start talking about their knitting projects or their novels or whatever they’re super into.”

When she meets his eye, Kenny’s smile is both gentle and understanding.  

“Gotcha.”

-

Tricia doesn’t have to ask what Kenny’s weakness is. Everyone in the bar’s five mile vicinity knows it’s sharply-dressed, sharp-tongued redheads who pay him no mind.

\---

She had met Kyle on her third night on the job.

Already a little frazzled from serving a tipsy group of ten (more interested in singing along with the radio than answering her questions), her heart had sunk upon hearing his quiet order.

“A michelada, please.”

Managing to keep expression professional, she nodded before squinting at the screen. Just as she reached for the menu to check just what exactly went into a michelada, fingers wrapped around her wrist.  

“I’ve got this, don’t worry.” Kenny said, apparently capable of appearing out of thin air. With a grateful smile, Tricia traded places with him. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched in horrid fascination as Kenny poured colourful liquid after colourful liquid into the mixer _(_ _is that teriyaki sauce?!_ _)_ , expression unusually cheerful.

A lady wearing a paper crown bound up to the bar, claiming her attention. She brushed past the blonde just as he set the salt-rimmed glass in front of the guest.   

“Here you go~” she heard him say, voice practically a purr. “A spicy drink for a spicy gentleman.”

-

It was hours before the bar emptied out, and Tricia even got the chance to consider that _very_ odd interaction. In the end, exhaustion won out and she considered it a fluke - not something she was likely to witness again.

\---

It was not.

\---

Kyle, as she soon finds out, is a reporter.  
_Investigative journalist_ , he corrects her each time, brows tight with annoyance. He wears sharply cut suits on days he has people to impress, and worn letterman jackets with tight jeans on days he doesn’t. He favours greens and oranges - shades that, by all means, should make him look like a colourblind interpretive artist rather than a fairly respectable member of society. He orders buffalo wings and that horrendous, baffling spicy drink every single time, with its clamato juice base and chilli powder garnish.    

He is also completely unmoved and uninterested in Kenny’s advances.

\---

On Monday, Tricia places a pina colada in front of their smartly-dressed regular just as Kenny calls his name with a serious expression.   

“Token, I’d like to seek some legal council.”

The other blinks, already reaching for his phone. “What kind?”

“Do you see that man over there?” Kenny sighs. At the sweep of his hand, they all glance three seats to the left, to where Kyle is sitting. Judging by the muffled noises, he’s on his fourth round of Hearthstone. “Quite frankly, it’s illegal to be so damn fine.”

Token’s eyebrows threaten to escape his forehead. Behind him, a badly muffled cackle flies free.

Kyle taps at the screen of his phone, not sparing them a glance.

\---

“Do they charge you for the material of your suits by the square inch, Kyle?” Kenny asks on Wednesday. He leans against the bar, seemingly unaware of the sticky disaster his hair is. Tricia isn’t going to be the one to tell him.     

Kyle frowns, paused in mid-motion. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if that illegally tight tailoring on all your trousers was because of smart financial decisions, or something deliberate.“

Green eyes flash before lips twitch into a scary excuse of a smile. “Guess you’ll have to keep wondering.”

\---

On Thursday, the evening passes by with little to no chatter, and a notable lack of pick-up lines. Tricia is about to commend her colleague on his restraint when she spots Kyle’s napkin.

The limerick scribbled on it is simultaneously raunchy and embarrassingly cheesy.

\---

On Friday, she is painstakingly measuring out a pint when Kenny approaches the exhausted-looking pile of investigative journalist draped on the counter.   

“Hard day?” she hears the blonde ask, concern lurking under the easy tone of his voice.

“This case is driving me insane.” Kyle replies, much to her surprise. He lifts his head, revealing some truly terrifying eyebags. “It just keeps escalating. The boss has been riding us all week long.”

Kenny hums. He taps a finger against the counter before he leans closer.

“Wanna take a break from it and switch things up? I don’t mind getting in the saddle for a ride.”

Too busy staring in horror, Tricia only notices the excess ale sloshing over the rim of the glass in hand when her customer clears his throat. She jumps, releasing the lever amidst a flurry of foam and curses.

“Shit, shit - fuck, I’m so sorry - “

“No worries, dear.” the guest assures her, smile knowing. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

\---

By the end of the second week, Tricia has to seriously wonder if Kenny is too stubborn to admit defeat, or somehow, he really is just that clueless to the redhead’s disinterest.

“Does no one else,” she grits out, motioning with a dishtowel, “see something wrong with this picture?”

The two men in front of her follow her gaze to a now-familiar sight of Kenny-and-Kyle, accompanied by a broom and a laptop respectively. The last time Tricia had squeezed past them, Kenny was offering to rub the stress out of the redhead’s shoulders. Kyle had thrown a pen at him.  

When their gazes meet again, Token’s smile is appropriately strained. Clyde however - to her horror - looks _touched_.

“It’s just their thing!”

“Surely getting turned down _constantly_ gets...tiring. _Surely,_ at some point, you would just...you know. _Stop._ ”

Clyde waves a hand, barely missing the painstakingly arranged floral display. “Love makes you do funny things.”

Tricia reaches for his empty glass, unimpressed. “Yeah, this has veered away from ‘funny’ a while back, and it’s doing a U-turn onto ‘painful and pathetic’.”

Token hides a chuckle in his drink, expression turning fond as Clyde squawks in protest.

“Come now, Trish, where’s your sense of romance?”

“Well, _my_ definition of masochism involves hot wax, handcuffs and people being actually satisfied at the end of the night. My bad.”

\---

She’s rooting around for a jar of cherries under the counter when the bell above the front door chimes. For once, she is the only one in the bar, with Kenny out on an errand, and Bebe having taken the weekend off. When she emerges, there’s a tall brunette waiting by the till, clutching a heavy sports bag and peering towards the door.   

“Afternoon.” she calls out, already reaching for a glass. The girl turns her head and Tricia’s thoughts stutter to a screeching halt.

Big blue eyes, reminiscent of a cloudless summer sky. Long chestnut brown hair, twisted into a messy bun and secured into place with a pencil. A cute button nose, dusted with freckles and smeared with traces of charcoal.  
Tricia swears that somewhere, muffled in the background, Hootie and the Blowfish starts playing.

“Hi!” Her lips - smeared with a hint of glittery gloss - tug into a smile. Somewhere, a dozen unicorns spring into existence. “You’re Tricia, right?”   

“Um.” is her intelligent reply, voice an octave higher than normal. Were angels telepathic now? “Yes?”

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you! I’m Karen, and I’m looking for my brother, Kenny?”

That answered one question, and raised another. Was everyone in the McCormick family so goddamn _charming?_

“He just stepped outside for an errand.” she manages to say. Her words only go slightly squeaky and weird towards the very end, so Tricia counts it as a success. “He’ll be twenty minutes the most?”

Karen nods. Somehow, Tricia’s single functioning braincell springs into action.

“I can get you a drink while you wait? We’re trying out a new brand of gin and a second opinion is always nice.”

Karen tilts her head. Her deliberation only spans a few seconds before she’s climbing into a seat, skinny elbows resting on dark oak.

“I ain’t gonna say no to a drink. This week has been _hell_.”

She’s wearing mismatched earrings - a hoop in one ear, and a little star stud in the other. The shirt draped over her frame is several sizes too big, the plaid well-worn and well loved. As a younger sister, Tricia is familiar with what clothes stolen from elder siblings look like.

One gin turns into two, which turns into two-and-a-half. The conversation flows easy, the constant tremors in Tricia’s stomach notwithstanding. It turns out that Karen studies fashion design (of course she does), volunteers at the local animal shelter, and is incredibly passionate about both adopting strays and fabrics made from recycled plastics.  

“Oh, I’m so sorry - “ she says after downing her glass, clearly parched from talking almost non-stop for ten minutes. “Word vomit.”

“No, no.” Tricia is quick to say. Her cheeks must be burning. “It’s cool! All cool.”  

Karen’s relief is palpable. “It’s...actually really good to talk about something that’s _not_ the reasoning behind my project aesthetics.”

“You must get asked that constantly.” Tricia concedes with a snigger. She leans closer, voice dipping into the snobby tones of a gossip magazine journalist. “You’re into _fashion_ , right? How would you describe your _style?”_

Karen’s hands fly in front of her mouth, unsuccessful in muffling her laugh. Her nails are bitten all the way down, colourful with chipped blue polish. “We-eell....I like to channel the vibe of…’soft pastel chic who could easily bury a disrespectful body without much trouble’.”

Tricia wants to _marry her_.

She is saved from potential embarrassment by the jingling bell, signalling Kenny’s return. Grabbing the empty glasses, she makes her quick escape into the stock room and its dark, dark corners. Her fingers shake as she whips out her phone, frantically typing out a text.

**//I just met my future wife. Im gonna die//**

Craig’s reply, for once, is prompt.

**//breathe & dont propose with a bottle opener again.// **

Because Tricia is an adult, and a _fucking professional_ , she doesn’t tell her phone screen to fuck off.

\---

Karen comes by again on a Saturday, wearing a frilly sundress and a sleepy smile. Tricia experiences what it’s like working through imminent heart failure.  
On Tuesday, she wears a frayed denim jacket, carrying a rugsack for her brother and a hysterical story for the rest of them.  
Somewhere around her third and fourth visit, her number somehow makes its way into Tricia’s phone.

\---

In hindsight, it’s telling how distracted she is. She should have noticed the glaring irregularity much sooner.

“Since when do we serve coffee?” she asks her floral-hat wearing regular.

“You don’t.” Heidi replies, practically tearing through her newspaper with a swipe of a pen.

Right on cue, Kenny walks past Kyle’s table, refilling his mug without a word.

\---

It’s Tuesday night, and it’s pissing down. The bar is empty save for three regulars, the sound of the rain dulling the sharp sounds of the radio. Kyle is sitting in his regular seat, eyes unfocused and head resting in his palm. Tricia waits until the pen rolls free from his fingers before approaching him.   

“Hey. The usual?”

Kyle blinks, lips tugging into a tired smile. “Just a Flatliner today. Thanks.”

It takes a lot to suppress a wince of disgust at that. The reporter’s tastes leave a lot to be desired - and the dark circles under his eyes aren’t the sort that encourage such drastic amounts of liquor.    

“Right. Do you have any allergies?”

“...no?”

Tricia nods, slipping out to the kitchen. A few minutes later, a plate with a sandwich is nudged on top of Kyle’s notes.

“...I didn’t - “

“You look like a model on day four of fashion week.” Tricia cuts him off, tone bearing no argument. “Kenny is not working today, and I’m not dragging you into a taxi by myself if you pass out on that one drink. If you want that...sambuca monstrosity, eat that first.”

Kyle’s expression is something to be relished, and leaves her wishing she had a camera. Soon enough, he sighs in defeat, reaching over for a napkin.

And that’s when she sees it - the thin, gleaming band around his left ring finger.

\---

It doesn’t make sense.  
Kenny shared her views on relationships and loyalty wholeheartedly. Whenever a soaked harasser demanded to see Tricia’s manager, he was all too happy to show them the door. He helped implement a system where guests could discreetly ask for help at the bar, be it an uncomfortable situation or a date gone wrong. He would never chase after a _married man_.  
And yet…and yet.   

\---

The steel is cool under her skin as she lets herself inside Bebe’s office. If her stomach wasn’t tied up in such uncomfortable knots, the sleek interior would have made her swoon.

“Hey, Tricia.” comes the cheerful greeting. Bebe’s smile crumbles as soon as she sees her face. “What’s wrong?”

“...do you know that regular we have? The...investigative journalist?”

The blonde nods, frown deepening. “What, Kyle?”

“...You know him?”

Bebe tilts her head to the side, concern slipping into amusement. “Kyle? Kenny’s husband, Kyle? I should hope I know him.”

-

Kenny is hunched over the new stock, lips moving soundlessly as he checks the packing list. Tricia doesn’t bother with a greeting or a warning before marching over, slamming both her hands down on the counter.

“Husband?” she practically shrieks. _“Husband?!”_

The asshole has the audacity to stare at her before his eyes crinkle and he bursts into laughter.

 _This_ , Tricia thinks as she watches him wheeze for oxygen, attracting the attention of everyone in a five-mile radius, _cannot possibly get any worse_.

-

It can.

_“You all knew?!”_

Token ducks his head, having the grace to look a little sheepish. Heidi hides her grin behind her newspaper. Clyde’s grin is blinding.

“I told you it was just their thing, Trish!”

“All of you! All of you knew! And no one thought they should tell me?!”

“Don’t be mad at them, Tricia.” Kenny cuts in, claiming the focus of her furious attention. He’s draped himself over Kyle - _his husband of five fucking years_ \- chin resting amidst messy red curls. Underneath him, the journalist looks almost smug.   

“So you guys just routinely do this for fun?” Tricia says, voice climbing in horror. “Oh, God, is this like, role-playing? The whole ‘strangers at a bar’ thing? Did you guys make me part of your weird foreplay ritual?!”

She relishes the speed at which colour floods Kyle’s cheeks, dark and mortified. _“No!!”_ he protests.

“Yes.” comes a chorus of simultaneous replies from around them. Kyle glowers at them.

“I hate all of you.” Tricia declares. She throws her hands in the air, turning her back on them in a manner truly befitting of a Tucker. Craig would be so proud. “I’m stealing all of your till shifts, and I refuse to help you close for the week. My trust in humanity has been _shattered_.”    

She is going to let him stew for a long while. She is a woman of strong convictions, and her forgiveness cannot be bought.

\---

A plate of stunning cupcakes greet her on the counter the next morning. Powdered with sugar and beautifully brown, a careful hand has arranged them to form an unhappy face.  
Tricia is a woman of strong convictions. She manages to ignore them for a full two minutes before snatching one and cramming it into her mouth. She’s already reaching for the second one when Kenny makes his presence known, smile a little too pleased for her liking.

“Are we okay then?”

Tricia sniffs, demolishing the second cupcake as quickly as the first. Much to her annoyance, most of her anger disappeared alongside the first one.

“It’s a start.”  

\---

Two weeks later, Karen leans over the counter and kisses her, all thrills and joyful impulse. Her lips are still tugged into a smile, her hands clutching the tickets Tricia handed her only minutes ago, voice trembling with the nerves of her confession.

Behind them, she hears a choked breath and the unmistakable sound of someone walking into a door.

With a grin, she slides a hand into Karen’s hair and considers them even.

\---

 

 

AN:

EDIT: The lovely [TheWayIAmOn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWayIAmOn/pseuds/TheWayIAmOn) translated this fic into Chinese! You can read it [here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20052508) or [here on lofter](http://cccccarly.lofter.com/post/1efad021_1c64b8990). Thank you so much! 

I wanted to give you a little thank-you gift for all the wonderful,  _wonderful_ K2 charms, Towny <3 I love them (and you!), and you were so sweet to send them to me. Thank you, and I really hope you enjoy this! 

Special thank you to [Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsMadeinHeaven/pseuds/StarsMadeinHeaven) for the suggestion for the [michelada](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2017/06/perfect-michelada-mexican-beer-cocktail-recipe.html) suggestion! Also, [flatliners](https://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Flatliner-Layered-Shot) are the worst kinds of shots in existence. If your boss tells you it's new tradition for your job to down one, find a new job. It's just not worth it.  

Happy holidays - see you all next year <3


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